


What You Didn't Say

by KoroMarimo



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-10-18 11:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10616220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoroMarimo/pseuds/KoroMarimo
Summary: He should have known all along. You might have even carried her inside you during your time in Team Skull. She might have accompanied you at Aether for all you knew.But when you knew for sure, when you had concrete evidence and proof to show Guzma that she belonged to him, you found yourself mute.You should have told him when you could.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My heart hurt very badly when I wrote this. It's better now.

You’d wanted to tell him. Oh yes, resolve was a foreign concept to you when you peed on four sticks and took a blood test at the doctor’s office only to get the same result over and over. You would have run over to Guzma’s house in an instant had you not seen him roaming Hau'Oli with someone else. That had driven you away. One month of no contact turned into nine and it was when you could no longer see your feet that you figured he wouldn’t want to be there anyway. Why should he? HE’D been the one who ended things. Didn’t bother to write or come see you when he knew where you were living, and the fact that your house wasn’t that far of a walk from Route 2 gave you the hint that it was done.

You’d endured this pregnancy alone for the entire nine months. Everything that should have been experienced at least with a close friend you did alone. Doctor’s appointments, baby clothes shopping, you did it all. Even going through the sad times and the nights where your baby just kicked so hard you couldn’t think straight anymore, crouching on the tiled floor of the shower under the hot water and screaming at/begging your little one to please stop hurting you.

"Please!" you entreat, clutching the taut skin of your stomach and breathing shallow. "Please stop! Don't hurt me anymore..."

She doesn't stop. Like Guzma when you begged him not to abandon you, his daughter shows no mercy. Her kicks feel like a heavyweight champion. A miniature Masked Royal sucker punching you in your ribs and organs whenever she felt it necessary.

At least your fractured rib and bruised skin dulled the ever constant pain you felt in your heart. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe she didn’t need him in her life and maybe you didn’t either. You didn’t think of the questions she’d ask when she was older. Didn’t consider that one day she’d come up to you with his eyes (she’d probably be him in miniature, torturing you with that same nose and smile and gritty determination forever) and ask the dreaded question: Where’s my father? You would have to answer. Would probably have to take her out to Route 2 sometime and point out his parent’s house with the tiny yellow swing that she might have played on with him in a different life. Even though he probably wouldn’t live there anymore, you would have to lie to appease her childish curiosity and say in the most detached voice you could muster “He lives there”.

You didn’t think of any of that now though. All you thought of was preparing for her to come.

Here it was week two of the ninth month and she was already overdue. On Friday the doctor said you’d be induced and the matter would be settled. He’d asked if there was anyone you would like him to contact overseas since you didn’t have access to a phone and he was willing to help. After all, it was important for you to be surrounded by family at this time. Maybe it would help you to be a bit more enthusiastic about everything.

“No.” You’d said. “There isn’t anyone.”

You hadn’t even picked out a name for her. She was just a set of pronouns, a vague idea, a weight gain with sentience, a white static outline on a black Polaroid in the shape of a little person, a stranger scheduled to come on an extended homestay visit for an indefinite period of time. She wasn’t a part of you, rather a shard of him. Guzma in miniature. And you couldn’t even claim her with a name.

You’d decided to have a last malasada before the big day. It was just closing time, and you’d managed to squeeze past the last customer for one and were now headed home to enjoy it. You didn’t like eating out in public anymore, but you were so nervous about the whole thing and you couldn’t remember if the doctor had told you that you could eat or not that you’d decided to have a bite anyway. You were in the midst of shoveling the whole damn thing in your mouth when a searing pain- a hot poker piercing your privates and lower back- made you collide into someone and cry out in a low, mournful voice. A queer wetness runs down your legs and onto the paved road. She’s here, and she’s not fucking around anymore.

“Watch where you’re- holy shit!”

Oh god… Why… WHY did it have to be him?!

The malasada is destroyed on the ground as Guzma steps directly on it to lift you strongly in his arms. You manage to choke out “baby” and “coming”, along with an assortment of colorful words before you groan out in agony again. You wonder if he even recognizes you, briefly you think that maybe he won’t and you can do this in peace once he gets you to the hospital, but little do you know Guzma isn’t as stupid as you want him to be. He says your name and asserts that “everythin’ll be ok!” before flagging down a lone cab. The whole ride over to the hospital you’re in tears, voice in a series of low pitched howls because it hurts your rib to go any higher. What sort of comforting he does and what he says positively escapes you, and you can’t hear him talking above your wailing and the searing pain that comes far too rapid for your taste. God help you, you can even feel her drop down in your body. The one thing that you can hear once you’re inside the hospital and in a wheelchair is the one thing you can’t even begin to deny.

“I’m the dad!” Guzma screams at a nurse, his one coherent sentence before he starts into a string of swears and slurs at the poor nurse and her Chansey who’s only trying to wheel you down the hallway and to the room where you’ll bear down so hard that it might kill you.

You want to make him disappear. You want him to spontaneously combust and explode into a gory mess all over the walls after staking a claim to her like that. But when they get you on a bed, and he holds you up enough to spread your dignity for the nurse to check while holding your hands and kissing you and telling you everything is going to be alright you find yourself unable to tell him where to go. You can’t make the words “Go to hell” come out of your mouth. All you know is she’s coming and it hurts so badly and you want to die from the pain, and the only thing supporting you through it and encouraging you to not give up is him. Guzma. The father of your child.

You’d wanted to tell him. But it was too late to do anything about that now.


	2. Rosalie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's here, he's here, and it's surreal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was told to continue, and I got inspired.

__

She studies the world through stormy gray eyes, his eyes, and often they fix upon you as though you are a beacon of angelic light. Her smile is a permanent installation whenever she looks at you, and when she looks at Guzma it fades and her lips purse so that she looks like a grumpy little rosebud. Guzma can hardly make enough fuss over her. And you, how do you feel now that she's here?

You're not sure.

"She loves you." Guzma murmurs, laying his head on your shoulder as he watches the baby smile and coo at you in reassurance. "She loves you a whole lot. She looks like you."

You make a noncommittal grunt. Her baby sounds mean nothing to you. Your heart is hollow, as though it had been kept full during her developmental stages from fertile egg to fetus and then to baby. Now someone's gone in and scooped out the feeling with a spoon now that she's out of the womb and into the open. A lactation consultant comes in to check on you and shows Guzma how to open your blouse (he acts like he's done it every day leading up to the birth) and how to help the baby latch on while staying snuggled comfortably in her nest of blankets and your arms. Your baby nurses like a hungry Grumpig, even making little sounds that sound vaguely like oinking.

"If you start to chafe, I'd recommend these products..." the consultant drones on and on while Guzma listens intently to her, stopping her mid sentence to ask questions as though he's a nursing mother.

"But what if she don't like the taste a that?" He asks seriously, pointing to your baby. "The hell do I do for her then? I dunno how she could still suck the titty if all she's tastin' is that chemically, gross shit that I'll have to slather all over my babe's nips."

"Coconut oil is fine." says the consultant, "It has antibacterial properties and is edible, so your baby might be more receptive to the taste. Dear, do you have a question for me?"

You look up at her for the first time since she came in to help. The woman is unnaturally perky, adamant about breastfeeding in a way that seems too weird for words. You avoid her eyes. They keep searching for something in yours and you're unsure of what she wants you to say. Does she want you to be happy holding a baby? Does she want to hear you gush and sing praises of how you feel this unbreakable bond with your little girl that will stand the test of time?

"I'm tired." is your evasive response. "Can I go to bed now?"

"All new mothers feel that way." she laughingly explains to Guzma when he looks worried. "You can go to bed soon, just let your little one finish, and I can show you both how to burp, uh, what is her name again my dear?"

Oh God how much that question frightens you. The baby even freezes midway through her meal when she feels your heart rate accelerate through your skin. Guzma notices, frowns, stares at you as if to prompt you for a name. One doesn't come.

"Rosalie." Guzma says after an eternity of silence. You turn away.

"Oh!" murmurs the consultant with awe. "What a pretty name!"

"Couldn't decide on it for a while." he lies, staring at you. You avoid him and look down, but every time you stare at the baby you become overwhelmed. Eventually you settle looking at her blankets with the little Teddiursa patterns, letting Guzma and the consultant gush about the baby's beautiful name and how it suits her. Nothing comes out of your mouth the rest of the time that the woman is there. She gives you a quick burping demonstration and some nuanced tips before leaving you alone again with Guzma. He's a bit distant now that the baby, Rosalie you guess, is sleeping in a tiny hospital bassinet and sighing.

"... You didn't give her a name?"

His voice snaps you out of your thoughts. A genuine look of concern is burned into his eyes.

"No." you reply quietly.

"Why?"

You refuse to answer. He's here now, right in front of you, and you can't begin to tell him how this pregnancy affected you after the breakup and how you were so scared at first; living on the streets and throwing up any scrap you managed to get your hands on before you finally managed to battle someone for enough money to take the pregnancy tests. If anything, you don't want him to know. He broke up with you after all. After two years in Team Skull you were nothing to him, why suddenly were you something? Just because of the little creature laying in the bassinet that was conceived by a night of passionate love? That's not enough to merit any sort of an answer. Not even for her. He'd made it clear you were nothing. He didn't need to know your reasons behind anything.

Guzma sighs and then asks softly, "Do ya have a baby seat for her?"

"No."

"A blankie? Maybe some toys?"

"No..."

"Some lil' clothes for her? Diapers?"

"... A few..."

While baby clothes shopping might have happened, it didn't mean you knew exactly what to get her. A few little onesies that you thought would suffice were tucked away like an afterthought in a drawer in your apartment's kitchen. Your baby's delivery was frankly the last thing on your mind when you were still wounded by the betrayal. Guzma might think you a deadbeat, but what did that matter when he'd taken away every happiness? You deserved to be bitter.

"Ok." he sighs. He puts his hand to the back of his sweatpants and fumbles for a tattered wallet. You're surprised to see he's still loaded; a nice stack of bills is neatly tucked in there among purple foil wrappers and this boils your blood. You'd have thought he'd have spent it all by now on his new little toy.

"Can ya gimme your apartment keys?" Guzma asks. You point to your purse, and he fishes them out.

"Gonna stop by the store for a bit," he tells you, "Get a couple things for her, then I'll get some clothes from your house for tomorrow when we can go home 'n getcha all settled in."

"I don't have any..." you mutter.

"Huh?"

"I don't have any clothes." You reply a little louder. "Just the dress. But that's ruined."

You point to the floral mumu rolled up in a plastic bag on the table. A mixture of blood and amniotic fluid stains a part of the flowers at the bottom hem. You can't bleach it, and it's too late to wash the stains out. There goes the one article of clothing that still fit you.

"You ain't got no clothes?" He asks. Aghast. As though that's something you should be worried about.

"No."

"Babe..."

It stings your heart hearing him say that again, but you don't need his damn pity. Then again you need the clothes more, so you don't say anything that would dissuade him from buying anything for you or the baby.

"I want to go to bed." you reply curtly, while Rosalie twitches in her sleep in response. Guzma tries to say anything. Words become garbled and stuck in his throat like a glue plug but you don't pay him any mind. You roll over onto your side and hug the flat hospital pillow to your cheek, but you can't tell him to turn off the light so you can sleep. Asking him for anything is weakness. Let him take the hint otherwise you'll try your damnedest to sleep with it on.

"Ok..." he replies. It's the smallest sound in the world and you reflect that it's probably as small as he feels right now.

Good. Let him have a taste of it for once in his life. With bated breath so he won't wake the baby, Guzma quietly moves to turn off the light and this pisses you off for some reason. You're shrouded in darkness, and his footsteps echo forlornly in the room as he exits. Rosalie doesn't make a sound. She sleeps undisturbed, innocently unaware of the dramatics that surround her entrance to the world. Perhaps she dreams of waking up to eat again. You can hear her distinct suckling sounds and wonder if perhaps she's sucking her thumb like those baby caricatures in the cartoons. It's strange hearing her now that she's not muffled by your protruding stomach. It's that odd feeling of being alone, yet not alone. Unnerving. A foreboding feeling that makes you quake in the hospital bed as tears threateningly pool in your eyes. It's a familiar sensation.

You're taken back to seven months ago, when you had been looting abandoned meals outside of cafes for scraps left by tourists, wondering why you couldn't keep left over galette crusts down when it would be the only meal you'd have in weeks. Ditching the skull jacket Guzma had given you along with the necklace helped you find battles, but it wasn't enough to support you in the long run. Nor did you pursue it enough to make a living. Nothing mattered anymore then. You'd lost the love of your life along with the home you abandoned your family for, the closer you were to death the better. Nothing registered then. Your missed periods were only an overlooked convenience. Actually you were glad nothing happened because you thought it meant you were only that much closer to the end. It's sickening now to think that there was actually a point in time where your entire world had been Guzma, and that when your world was taken away you'd crave death so strongly.

It was in the middle of drinking the dregs of someone's Tapu Cocoa that you felt it; the doctor had described the sensation as "quickening" later on when you had battled for enough money to see him. Rosalie's earliest movements that soon after conception. It was then you thought that maybe something wasn't as it should be, that there could be a problem because you could feel something honest to God moving in your stomach. Such a tiny thing it was. You might have overlooked it any other day. But she did move. Felt like a Caterpie inching across the skin of your lower abdomen and stomach before settling down, a knot of anxiety forming because you couldn't understand what was wrong at the time.

Had you understood any sooner, you might have put an end to this whole business. In a way the little one is lucky. She'd kept herself hidden well until you were so far gone into depression that you didn't have the strength to abort her by that point. Sad to think of it in that way, but she is so blissfully unaware that the man who attended her birth and provided clothes for her could cause so much damage that it made her mother wish to be dead. Rosalie will never understand how her father has taken away everything, nor will she understand how these simple acts of kindness rip you in half. Guzma's dangling everything you had before in your face, teasing you with his kindness and clothes and titillating kisses and his "babes" while killing you inside, and your daughter has no idea. No concept of what it's like to be so thoroughly destroyed that every little thing is a new threat.

You wonder if he's just going to leave you again like last time.


	3. Ki'i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She told you it was normal to feel the way you did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be more chapters to this. Not sure.

“Up and at ‘em beautiful. I’m sorry to be so forward, but we need your boob this hour.”

You’re stirred out of your angry sleep by a nurse looming over your vision. Her curls are pulled tightly in a bun, and her smile is homey. Comfortable even as you allow her to pull you into an upright position with her strong arms. The baby is crying. Ordinarily upon waking one might wonder how long she’s been wailing but you don’t fit the bill for ordinary. Probably she’s been crying for hours and the nurse has only decided to make her rounds now.

“Pardon me,” she continues. “My name is Nurse Ki’i. Not Kiki, and if you call me Kiwi I’m spitting in your jello at lunch. I’ll be handling dinner this evening for young Rosalie. And don’t worry, I’m not as zubatty as that horrific lactation consultant. I’m just here to do my job. I won’t be quizzing you on the right way to handle these two loaded guns.”

Ki’i takes the liberty of unbuttoning the front of your unflattering gown, then with expertise she helps Rosalie latch on and places a cushion of pillows underneath her for support. You watch her cautiously with a mischievous glint of anger in your eyes. Not that you feel protective of the baby, but there’s still that hint of mistrust from Guzma and Lusamine and all this other crap that you’ve endured that sits heavily on your heart and makes you mistrust your own shadow. Call it a gang banger’s intuition. A talent made from years of living the quote unquote thug life and initiation and whatnot. In you it’s not as potent, because had your initiators been the gang of rough men and not Guzma (or even Plumeria) you would be off your rocker like the rest of the girls. Yet the problem with even the slightest bit of intuition is, and you know from experience, that it causes you to trust the wrong people and push away the ones that really want to help. For some reason you think of Nanu as Nurse Ki’i helps you take care of the baby.

 _I’ve got to get a day job._ You think as the nurse sits in Guzma’s chair next to your bed while you stifle the ruffled feathers of your inner gang banger.

“Pardon my stare.” says the nurse in a low, smoky voice. “I’ve got to watch you while the man is out. I’m under strict orders, but I will only be bothering you for another thirty minutes. He left an hour ago and should be back soon.”

“… Slipped you a twenty, didn’t he?” the snark comes out before you can stop it. But you did appreciate her calling Guzma “the man” instead of “the father”. This sympathetic detachment is nice. Maybe she won’t be as bad as the awful boob lady from before.

“Hundred actually.” she chuckles, “But I made him keep it. Told him he needs it more for the baby.”

Your upper lip turns into a snarl, emotions unchecked now that he’s gone. Rosalie eats gratefully, her little hand placed directly over the spot where your heart beats. Something about your heart draws her to it. Maybe she’s trying a little too hard to get in. There’s still some barrier that prevents you from bonding with her completely, and you flinch as she gums your breast.

“I know honey.” she croons while Rosalie pulls at your nipple. “It’s hard being young and saddled with a kid. But I’m going to make it as painless as possible while we’re here, alright?”

A dry “hmph” issues from your throat.

“You’re gonna be feeling that temper for a good while.” she explains. “Might last years, but we gotta try to live around it, yeah?”

No answer. You’d rather be somewhere else. Definitely more of a chatty Cathy than Nanu ever was, and you wonder vaguely if your Pokémon are being well taken care of in the PC storage. They said they’d feed them daily. You hope they don’t miss you too much.

“Yeah.” Ki’i says for you. “Gotta keep reminding yourself that the most important thing is that little one right there in your arms. She needs you more than he does.”

Again you snarl. Angry rockruff.

“Didn’t feel the pull to her right away, did you?”

Her question hits at point blank range. You feel the recoil and accompanying fear rushing out from being so exposed and cracked open. Every which way you turn you can’t refuse the questioning look of her eyes, her brow cocked just so in that way that can only be found in a police officer. The good kind. The smart kind. The kind Nanu was whenever he talked to your Meowth and did that thing where he asked the Pokémon indirect questions about you as though she could answer him.

“I thought not.” she says when you take a long time to answer. “But it’s normal.”

She adjusts Rosalie’s latch when she starts to slip, supporting her head for you while she continues to chat. Nurse Ki’i goes on to say things like all mothers are full of a little shit, it just so happens to be sometimes that they perpetuate shit lies to make themselves look perfect right out of the delivery room. According to her, it’s totally expected for a first time mom to think her kid is a wrinkly gremlin from Hades. Totally normal. So much so in fact, that she’s seen women outright reject the kid and go ballistic because they have such a high standard of perfection that early out of the anesthesia.

“There’s an expectation,” she continues, “That everything is going to be such a beautiful fairy tale birth, and that nothing will go wrong or the baby will be beautiful right off the bat. They don’t really seem to understand that life is shit. We all get dealt the shit end of the stick. No one can have it all. But when it does go to shit, you have to take everything in stride.”

The better part of thirty minutes has been silent, so you remain quiet while she talks.

“Honestly I told my wife I hated everything, including the kids, the minute they were born.” she chuckles this as though it’s not a big deal. But according to her it’s not. So it’s confusing.

“I hated her. I hated our house. I hated my Lycanroc and my entire team. I hated how the kids looked. You would have thought I was the world’s shittiest mother the way I raged and ranted for days. Of course, no matter who I talked to, the consensus was often I should never have been a parent. You should see the nerve some women had.”

Nurse Ki’i laughs with such an intensity that makes you squirm uncomfortably in your bed. Of course she sounds like a shit mother. You don’t understand at all how someone can honestly hate the world, and even the innocent Pokémon who never did anything wrong. She had a perfect life. A wife, a home, an established and respectable career that brought in a hefty amount of income. Her two kids adored her unconditionally. Her wife had a career and took care of the house on her days off. She had steaks and mashed potatoes every night for dinner. Never took orders from Aether. Never had to worry that one day out of the blue her wife would storm into the bedroom, pack her shit, and then leave her out in the street to grow a kid and fend for herself. _How could you_ … is your internal mantra to her. _How in the hell could you ever…_

But then she looks at you in that way that hurts you and makes you feel raw again, and her eyes say, _Easy. The same way you did._

“You’re terrible…” you mutter, looking away.

“We all are sweetie. Even you. Same as when you and the man were running around like fools in your little skull getups. I think you both look better this way. Causing me less of a headache coming home at night wondering when your little punk friends were going to accost me for my Pokémon.”

“No I’m not...” you mutter. Her little talk has brought back a fragment of your old swagger and it makes you feel as though you have a one up on her. You’re not that shitty of a parent. Not like her. Never…

Are you?

“It’s completely normal.” she says again. “Eventually you get used to it and get over all your crap thinking it was a mistake. Everything happens for some reason or another. Life is shit but it’s a learning experience. You’re young, so eventually you’ll figure out your lot in life and make it. With or without him.”

“… been without…” you mutter.

“I know.” Ki’i responds. “And if it happens again, you’ll be ok. You know the streets; I can imagine what you went through. You were a tough trainer. Would have given even me some trouble had I run into you during a mood swing.”

You like that she doesn’t ask you to speak up like Guzma does. She gets it. Understands it on some weird level that goes beyond communication and into straight up intuition. Ki’i isn’t so bad. Tolerable. Weird. But not bad. She makes idle chatter with you for a while as the baby eats, letting you know that it’s better to let her eat as often as possible to avoid her being underfed. She’s seen a popular bleach blonde once almost starve her babies by giving them only eight ounces of skim moo moo milk three times a day, thinking that she didn’t want any “fat kids”. And this idiot was dumb enough to do it to two kids.

“You’ll hear about stupid things like that all the time.” she assures you, “So rest easy knowing you don’t have any awards coming for ‘worst mother of the year’ just because you don’t feel an instant attachment. You’re actually very caring letting her eat up all she wants. Your Rosalie is going to be a very happy, healthy baby.”

She sees your moment of hesitation. You did sleep in after all while Rosalie was crying…

“We’ll work on it.” Ki’i says with a smile. “I’m very optimistic about you. Now let’s get this little one burped, and I smell a change in the winds, so I’ll take care of this while you rest up.”

Rosalie is under her care and being changed as Guzma comes creaking back into the room via the open door. At first he looks fearful, almost to the point of rage when he notices Ki’i chattering away to you with the lights on, but you meet his gaze strongly and he has no choice but to turn away in shame. Maybe he’s remorseful, or pissed off that fate has caught up to him and he now has to pay for his responsibilities. Guzma is pushing a brand new baby pram, teal and white with an Alolan Raichu pattern, holding a duffel bag in one hand that still has the tags on it, and inside the pram is a rather pretty diaper bag that has a pink Swirlix pattern on it. Everything is stuffed to the brim with baby items and various other things you can’t really see. Not that it matters, but you hope Guzma has at least had the decency to get you the right sizes.

“Ah, you’ve returned.” says Ki’i with a smile. “We’ve fed her and changed her nappy, and I’ve spoken to the Pediatrician who just needs a bit more time to be sure that you all can be discharged as soon as possible. You need one more night here, and if you’d like to stay you’re more than welcome to.”

Every local greets Guzma with a smile now that he’s done with his gangster faze. It unnerves him. Makes him wish that they would scream obscenities at him or cower in fear. You know because Hau’Oli is too small not to know how the locals treat him when they see him, and because he’s told that to a date once as she stirred her Roserade Tea nonchalantly and looked as though she didn’t think she’d have to work this hard for a quick fuck.

“Hmm.” Guzma replies to her. Annoyed. You can still tell his moods after nine months of separation.

“And there we are my darling.” she says to Rosalie, lifting her up and placing her in your waiting arms where you decide to give her the benefit of the doubt and at least try to bond. It still doesn’t happen immediately. But you can’t help but feel the satisfaction when Rosalie looks at Guzma with a face that says “Get the fuck out you scraggly trash man”. It’s nice having someone completely on your side. Nurse Ki’i is neutral territory so she doesn’t count as much. With final goodbyes the nurse leaves you and Guzma alone for the night. Silently as Rosalie looks at you and gurgles in play, you pray that Guzma won’t try his idle chit chat again.

“I got you some clothes.” he says. Expectant. Like he wants praise.

Oh great… Here we go.

“Gotcha some real pretty dresses, ‘n a pair of sweats if you don’t wanna feel like your vajay is hangin’ out all over the place… Rosalie gets things too. Got her this onesie that looks like a butterfree…”

Guzma is pulling shit left and right out of the duffle bag and pram like it’s Christmas Day. There’s a soft looking Mareep toy made of cotton that he puts next to Rosalie (she looks at it as though it’s diseased), along with some underwear and clothes for you. Tubes of toothpaste and tooth brushes sit beside the new detangling hairbrush and vitamins, the clothes and underwear still have tags and look pristine. Still an off brand, but at least it’s better than the muumuu you could barely afford at the market. He even shows you a new breast pump and tub of coconut oil, explaining to you how to use it if you ever feel too sore to nurse. You don’t say anything as he shows you the blankies and bottles he brought along in the diaper bag, along with Rosalie’s newborn diapers and a few other goodies. More than anything you feel relief; he’s saved you from a mad scramble to fight for enough money to buy the baby’s things, and he’s saved you a long trip up the stairs to your apartment in the low income housing district carrying all this shit with you. You’re also bitterly disappointed when you realize he hasn’t brought you any snacks.

“Almost forgot,” he says when you’re feeling resigned to an empty stomach, “I gotcha some dinner. A burger an’ a milkshake just how you like it. You didn’t have any food at the house.”

From the car seat he produces food, you were so preoccupied with ignoring him that you didn’t bother noticing all the little gizmos and knick knacks on the baby seat. There are holders for drinking cups, snack compartments in the shape of magikarp, fucking everything short of a few gears and an ignition so Rosalie can drive herself around. Guzma hands you a paper bag filled with food along with the milkshake, where he even takes the time to take the straw out of the paper cover and put it in the cup for you. The royal treatment, but does it make up for the two straight up months living in poverty?

No. And you can’t help but seethe with rage when Guzma takes the baby out of your arms so you can eat.

“Do you like your stuff?” he asks eagerly.

“Mmhmm…” you hum through a mouthful of burger. How long has it been since you’ve had one? The malasada was hardly as good as this.

Guzma is elated. All smiles and happy faces as he watches you shovel food into your mouth. He places Rosalie in her crib where she watches and listens to you eat. Her belly is already sated with milk, but the food makes her eyes go wide and she can’t help staring at your fries. With his chin in his hands, Guzma watches you eat from the chair. Eyes cast a glance up and down at your withered frame now that Rosalie is out in the open air, and he winces when he notices your arms. Normally you see new mothers with meat on their bones, you’re much skinnier than he remembered. There are dark circles under your eyes that rival his. When the doctors had changed you into the hospital gown he saw the bruises on the soft skin of your belly where the baby had kicked you.

He doesn’t have anything else to say. You crumple up the wrappers in the bag and drain the milkshake to the dregs before tossing it in his direction and laying back into your pillows. Your mood is better. You feel like you could give Guzma a five second headstart instead of killing him outright. It’s calmer now. There’s not as much of a tangible awkwardness. And then Guzma has to go and open his stupid mouth.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

“What?”

“About her, you… This?”

He gestures to everything in the room for emphasis. You close your eyes, count to ten, and then speak.

“ _You_ left _me_.” you remind him. “Why should I say anything?”

You win. There’s nothing else to it. Guzma sucks in his breath sharply and looks as though you’ve stuck a fork in his heart but he can’t come back with a retort no matter how hard he wills it to come. With bated breath you wait for him to become angry, stomp out of the room, and leave you to figure out how in the hell you’re supposed to carry all of this and the baby home. It’s a long walk to the low income housing complex, and you don’t have any Pokémon to help. Yet you’re resigned to doing it alone. Maybe you can ask Nurse Ki’i to bring her kids, wife and Lycanroc over so they can help you bring your things home. With things for the baby and food in your belly you feel a lot better, more confident than you had in a long time.

Hours crawl by and Guzma is still sitting in that chair as the night progresses and turns into morning. He falls asleep around quarter to four, but you’re still awake in your bed and watching as he and Rosalie cat nap where they are. This whole time, you’ve been waiting for him to say the magic words: “Fuck you”, and leave out the door. The longer you wait and the more it doesn’t come you feel anxious. What in the hell does he want from you? Why won’t he just leave you on your own like before? When Lusamine was the first love of his life and you came in dead second. An afterthought. Not his girl anymore but just some bitch who warmed his bed at night when he couldn’t have Lusamine. You knew how he felt, pretended like it didn’t bother you, and just savored the nights when he turned to you and made you taste heaven and chase waterfalls just like the time he initiated you into Team Skull and made it clear you were to be his bitch. Not anyone else. You were the center of his world, and he took it away and made you scared and now he was trying to act proper, like a good dad, and support you and the baby even though you looked at him as though he was lower than dirt.

 _Why isn’t he leaving?_ You wondered. _Why won’t he just go away?_

Morning comes. Dawn’s bright light filters through the window of your room, and still he remains there. Snoring and grunting in his sleep as he lays his head down next to the pile of clothes and your legs.


End file.
